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A damp towel draped over his shoulder, the bartender put a sweaty glass of Dr Pepper, crowned with shaved ice, on Denise Diaz’s table.

“Thanks, Roy.”

Before leaving, he threw a glance over his shoulder, then winked in subtle acknowledgment.

Afternoon was fading into early evening at The Old Stirrup bar. Denise had left the paper for the day but hadn’t stopped working. Following Roy’s glance, she cast a quick eye to a table far across the bar.

She shifted her focus back to her notebook, her phone and the call she’d made earlier to Cecil Pratt. His deep voice still played in her mind. She didn’t have time to drive to Kilgore for a face-to-face interview. So, a few hours ago, she cold-called Cecil from the newsroom. When she got him, she adhered to her bird-in-the-hand rule, learned from experience. When you reach a subject on a sensitive story, go for broke because it could be your only shot.

“Commissioner Pratt?”

“That’s me.”

“Hi. Denise Diaz. I’m a reporter with the Clear River Chronicle .”

“Well, hello, Denise Diaz of the Chronicle , calling from Clear River.” Cecil exuded political charm over the line. “What can I do for you today?”

“Could I have a moment of your time to ask you a few questions?”

“This an interview?” He chuckled.

“Yes, sir, an on-the-record interview.”

A beat.

“A short one, then,” he said. “What does this concern?”

“A letter you wrote.”

“I send off a lot of them, part of my job. Do you have specifics?”

“It was recently sent to Mary-Ellen Hyde.”

Denise paused to let him digest the name.

“Yes?”

“It deals with an improper assessment of her property taxes and a retroactive application of a homestead exemption.” Denise provided the date.

“Okay. We send those out from time to time.” Rustling seeped into his end of the call. “Ms. Diaz, it’s getting late, I don’t have the letter in front of me, forgive me, but I’ll—”

“Mr. Pratt, this won’t take long. Surely you have the means of retrieving your copy. I could send you mine?”

Cecil didn’t speak, so she continued.

“Sir, I’d like to provide you the chance to comment for a story I may be writing, concerning this letter with your signature.”

“A story about the letter?”

“Yes, sir.”

In the seconds that followed, the temperature of his voice dropped.

“I see.”

He sighed the sigh of a pissed-off man.

While waiting, she could hear movement then muffled voices as he grunted for someone’s help. Seconds later, he came back on, his tone cool.

“I have my copy. Seems a straight-up correction of property assessment and homestead. I don’t have much time. What is your question?”

“The letter you signed was sent to Mary-Ellen Hyde, shortly after her son Donnie Ray Hyde was executed in Huntsville.”

Pratt was silent.

“Sir, as a former county sheriff, do you know Vernon Hamilton, a former sheriff for Clear River?”

After hesitating, he said: “Absolutely. We know each other from our former careers and work for various organizations.”

“Would you consider him a friend?”

Pratt hesitated again.

“I really don’t understand what you’re suggesting—”

“Sir, are you aware that Donnie Ray Hyde confessed to two additional murders after Vern Hamilton visited him on death row? And not long after that, Hyde’s mother received your letter alleviating her financial situation.”

In the seconds ticking by, she heard his breathing.

“Look, I confirmed I sent a routine letter on an adjustment of property taxes. As for your, whatever it is you’re suggesting, I have nothing to say.”

In the silence after the call, Denise had sat motionless at her desk in the newsroom, gauging her thoughts. Instinct told her she needed to keep digging, but most critical: she needed Vern Hamilton’s reaction.

After leaving the paper, she’d driven to Vern’s house. His pickup was gone. He didn’t answer the door, and she didn’t have his number. Denise called Irene Weaver, an assistant at the sheriff’s office, who was often a good source. She’d have the retired sheriff’s contact info. Maybe Irene could relay a message to him, if she hadn’t left for the day.

“Hey,” Irene said. “I was just stepping out the door.”

“I’m trying to reach Vernon Hamilton. Have you got a number for him?”

“I do.” Irene looked it up and recited it, adding, “I understand Vern’s not big on answering his phone. But I overheard Bob say they were meeting at the Stirrup. That was about twenty minutes ago. You might try there.”

Now, alone at her table, sipping Dr Pepper, Denise listened to the music in the bar, Don Gibson lamenting lost love and loneliness, which fit her mood.

Time went by and other songs played.

All the while, she kept a vigil on Bob Ellerd and Vern, who were sitting at a far table. Not wanting to address them together, her strategy was to get Vern alone. After a little over an hour, they’d finished their burgers and beers, paid the check, and were getting ready to leave.

Denise settled up and headed for the parking lot, waiting near Vern’s Ford.

As he made his way to his truck, she saw a flick of recognition as his eyes found hers. They knew each other from the press conference after Hyde’s execution, and because of her stories on the case.

“Hello, Denise.”

She stood straight, tapping her phone and notebook to her thigh, ready for battle. This was her shot.

“Hi, Vernon. Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Must be important for you to wait in the bar like you did.”

She half smiled. “Yes.”

Vern raised his head sightly, the brim of his hat barely above his eyes, gleaming like polished bullet tips.

“What is it?”

“It’s important and has to be on the record, Vernon.”

“For what, Denise?”

She didn’t know if Cecil had tipped him to her call about the letter.

“Donnie Ray Hyde, you, his mother and other matters.”

The edges of his thick silver mustache drooped as he studied her, his expression unreadable.

“Go ahead.”

“On the record?”

“Get to the point.”

“First, you go see Hyde on death row, resulting in his last-minute confession for Wild Pines. Not long after that, his mother is surprised with unexpected relief on back taxes, with a letter signed by Cecil Pratt, a former sheriff who knows you.”

“You insinuating a connection?”

“Before approaching you, I called and spoke with Cecil Pratt.”

She let that hang in the air before adding, “He confirmed sending the letter. I have a copy of it on my phone, if you’d like to see it?”

“No. Just what’re you gettin’ at?”

“Appearances.”

“Appearances?”

“How this all looks, with events that appear to happen as if by accident, but by pure chance have a connection. I mean—” Denise softened her voice “—for years, your daughter was the suspect .”

Vern stared at Denise for a long, silent moment, then turned his gaze to the horizon, like a man looking back on his life. Shaking his head slowly, he climbed into his truck and drove away.